Vampire Queen's Lament
by PhantomPenguin
Summary: The one being in the world who could ease the tedium of the long years, who could never fail to make her laugh or instill her with a delicious sense of wickedness, was dead.


**Disclaimer: I have no claims to The Icemark Chronicles.**

I read _The Cry of the Icemark_ a few years ago and fell in love; it was the beginning to a new, addicting series, and it was exactly what I had been looking for. While Thirrin, Oskan, and Tharaman (as well as their offspring) will always be among my favorite characters, I will admit that Their Vampiric Majesties captured my interest the most, for multiple reasons.

The idea for this kept eating away at me until I wrote it, so here is my small contribution to the Icemark fandom.

Please enjoy and review!

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The cavernous room was a yawning chasm, the tiled floor stretching on for what seemed like miles. A thin string of light peeped through the heavy clouds, trickling through the high windows to pool at the feet of two regal thrones. They stood in the center of the room on a dais, arranged in a manner that would place their owners far above the heads of any being to enter the room. Though majestic, the thrones conveyed an air of disrepair; a thin coating of dust was sprinkled across the surface of one, detracting from its previously elegant appearance.

The doors to the throne room flew open with a resounding crash, heralding the arrival of Her Vampiric Majesty. She was still dressed in her fearsome black armor, and she had yet to fully heal from all of her recently acquired wounds—she neither noticed nor cared about either fact.

Impassive, she stared around the throne room, taking in her home with dark eyes: lofty ceiling; high, ornate windows; two thrones, one now devoid of an inhabitant.

Her fangs drew blood as she clenched her teeth.

Silently, she moved to the dais and stepped up, drinking in the sight of the two thrones. She reached out with one hand as if to caress the dusty throne, but paused, her hand hovering in the air. It clenched into a fist, crimson nails digging into her palm, and she let it fall back to her side.

Taking a seat on her blood-red throne, she assumed a rigid posture. Her eyes, dark with sorrow, stared into the distance, their piercing gaze searching for a presence that she knew would never come.

The hopelessness of the situation fully hit her, and she doubled over in the throne as if in pain.

Abandoning all pretense of dignity, she shrieked, her keening cry of grief echoing throughout the shadowy hall. Bourne by her sorrow, it passed through every niche in the palace and made its way throughout the land; everyone would know of their ruler's sorrow, if they did not already.

She gripped the arms of her throne like a lifeline, her long fingernails gouging chunks out of the wood as she continued to scream.

Everything she had been feeling was released in that one mournful cry: her hatred for the dishonorable Bellorum; the wonderful bloodlust and sense of revenge she had felt as she gleefully tore apart his corpse; anger; resentment; shock; and, most of all, an overwhelming, excruciating sense of grief and loss.

He was gone.

The one being in the world who could ease the tedium of the long years, who, even in the monotony of passing centuries, could never fail to make her laugh or instill her with a delicious sense of wickedness, was destroyed. He was the only one who had made her feel happy, made her feel loved.

Now, he was gone forever—destroyed by the traitorous and cowardly Scipio Bellorum. She hissed in anger, lips curling around her fangs in a snarl.

Her love had been _honorable_. He had refrained from fighting with his supernatural powers, had allowed Bellorum a much fairer chance than the scum deserved. He had not considered that such honor might not be reciprocated.

Her eyes flashed, the deep despair in them turning their natural blue to pitch.

He was gone, and she was alone.

Trapped in an undead body, she was left to rule as the single monarch of the Land-of-the-Ghosts. Without him, there was no fun in needling Thirrin, no fun in toying with the Witchfather's patience. There was no fun in anything; everything that had brought her joy in this undead existence was gone, destroyed with her consort.

She cried out again in pure agony, lost beneath the crushing weight of the endless years that awaited her, the years that she would now face alone. Her head slumped and she stared numbly at the ground as she contemplated the horror of the upcoming years of loneliness.

Even if she were to be released from her physical existence, they could never meet again; Vampires had no souls. They had no afterlife, had nothing to look forward to once their bodies had turned to ash.

They had predicted an eternity spent together, their love and wit easing the burdens of immortality. She had assumed that he would be with her forever.

Without him, there was nothing for her—nothing. She had no anchor to the world, no foundation on which her interest could build. She was doomed to an undead life of boredom and loneliness, an existence of monotony and solitude.

Her last, defiant shriek slowly dwindled, her grief giving way to tears. Water pooled in her eyes, carving tracks down her white face as it fell. Shocked, she reached a trembling hand to her face, dashing away the salty drops. She hadn't truly cried in centuries…

Despite her best efforts, the tears continued to fall, streaming down her face. She straightened, chin held high even as the tears flowed.

"Oh, my love," she whispered. "What will I do without you?" Sitting in her palace, Her Vampiric Majesty wept, lamenting the loss of her consort and the beginning of her suffering.

She was truly alone.

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Reviews are greatly appreciated! Constructive criticism is welcome as well; I'm always looking to improve.


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